


Dave: listen carefully.

by greenslimeghost



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst, Community: homesmut, M/M, Masturbation, fucked-up striders, voyeurism of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenslimeghost/pseuds/greenslimeghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You still don’t know if you’ve got the guts to put the moves on your best friend, even if his dorky face drives you crazy and the fact that he likes to brocuddle makes it <i>really</i> hard to suppress a boner when you’re on the couch and he’s talking along with some lame-ass dialog, pressing close against you and excitedly pointing out that <i>this is the best part, no really!</i>--</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dave: listen carefully.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [homesmut](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org) kinkmeme prompt: _One night Dave overhears his best friend and older brother going at it- and it's really hot. Voyeuristic!Dave, possibly masturbating to the sound of John and Bro doing the dirty._
> 
> OOPS this was my first time writing for Homestuck and idek

Your name is Dave Strider, and tonight you’d volunteered to pick up a VHS of _Escape From L.A._ from the Blockbuster down the road. In exchange, John’s volunteered to stay behind and whip up some _wicked cool snacks_ for your Saturday movie night. The catch is that halfway there you’d realized you’d forgotten your wallet, so you decide to forego the entire affair. Bro’s got more than enough movies stockpiled in your living room, and you’re sure John can pick something equally shitty from the lot. 

John’s talented like that.

When you get back to your apartment there’s no sign of John and no sign of snacks either—it’s not even that late, but you figure he must have already passed out in your room in those ridiculous footed pajamas he’s probably brought along and you might be just a _bit_ disappointed, because tonight you were _finally_ gonna try it. Maybe. Perhaps. You still don’t know if you’ve got the guts to put the moves on your best friend, even if his dorky face drives you crazy and the fact that he likes to brocuddle makes it _really_ hard to suppress a boner when you’re on the couch and he’s talking along with some lame-ass dialog, pressing close against you and excitedly pointing out that _this is the best part, no really!_

You open a can of Chef Boyardee and peer into its saucy, sodium-rich depths. You wonder if there’s anything that _really_ rhymes with _beefaroni_ , ‘cause you’re working on a brand new ironic fifteen-year-old-bachelor rap.

You hear a sound.

You stop and listen, because it sounded like a voice. After a moment of silence, you chalk it up to the over-abundance of smuppets scattered about and just assume they’re working your brain over with some sort of plushvoodoo nonsense.

Then it happens again, and you realize it’s John. 

Not _just_ John—there’s a deeper voice, and something like a bedspring creaking.

It’s Bro.

You hadn’t noticed any sign of Bro upon entering, hadn’t noticed his rocket board out front or anything and you’re wondering how you managed to miss such a detail. Bro usually comes and goes without many words and you rarely notice—you’ve become accustomed to his not-being-around over the years, even though evidence of his existence over-populates your shared apartment. Smuppets. Bro’s boxers and random other dude shit. Aforementioned piles of shitty movies on VHS. Abundant cans of Chef Boyardee, which means Bro’s been grocery shopping.

Your train of thought is interrupted by a moan— _a fucking moan_ —and you take a step towards the hallway shared with the bedrooms and the corner of the kitchen and

it’s John.

John is moaning, in your apartment, and it’s _definitely_ coming from Bro’s room, and there is _nothing_ cool or ironic about this and you can’t believe this shit is happening and then

John _whimpers_ , a breathy stretch of sounds which make you feel fuzzy and seem to cause each and every one of your nerves to stand on end, your senses to fully awaken, adrenaline to pump through your veins. You listen to John, hear him whimpering and moaning and then hear the occasional low rumble that is your Bro—

and _are we really fucking serious right now_

_because this is so fucking ironic_

_that it is_ beyond _ironic_

that Bro could be fucking your best friend—well maybe not _fucking_ , who knows what they’re doing—when in reality Bro pays no fucking attention to you _or_ your friend, and John has no fucking idea as to how you feel about him. How perfect, you think. Two socially stunted butterflies gathering into a sweet cocoon to share their feels and kick you in their face with their—

oh God. 

You hear John moaning in short, rhythmic gasps, and your cock is hard. So hard, you can’t believe you haven’t noticed it until now. You hear the shifting of bedsprings and mattress and blankets and _everything_ and _fuck_ when did you acquire supersonic hearing? You clutch your can of Chef Boyardee and press yourself against the wall and listen for more of John—because, oh God, you want to _hear_ John—

John moans, and it’s loud and it’s sudden and it’s helpless and you start to imagine what Bro might be doing to him—and _fuck_ Bro, seriously, fuck him for getting to experience what you’ve wanted for years. Part of you wants to pound down his bedroom door and part of you is complacent because you don’t want to upset him, don’t want to drive the wedge between you further into the soft and fucking pliant ground. 

John moans. 

You place the can behind you on the counter, absentmindedly; you are leaning back against the counter and you are listening to the sounds of them doing _something_ and you can’t help but touch yourself, tentatively at first.

You hear hushed voices, John in a pleading tone, Bro flat and decisive. You hear the bounce of bedsprings again and then you hear John, murmuring desperately, and you _wish_ you could make out the words but you imagine them sounding something like this:

_Dave, oh fuck, Dave, oh god fuck yes Dave please_

You’re jealous of Bro. You’re jealous of the fact that perhaps he’s watching his cock disappear into John’s mouth right now, maybe even disappear into his ass—but you don’t think John would go that far, in fact you don’t think he’s gone as far as penetration with _anyone_ \-- 

_You_ certainly haven’t, and when you hear the desperate whimpering beginning to reach a crescendo you start to stroke your cock, and _oh god_ do you wish it were John’s hand, and John’s voice , and John’s eyes looking up at you from that flushed and doofy face with his glasses all crooked and his hair all messy and blushing and shit—

you hear a muffled plea, in John’s voice, and you come. You come so hard that your legs shake and you almost lose your footing, almost have to sink to the floor with your back leaning firm against the wall. You feel ashamed and guilty and perverted and terrible because you have just _gotten off on your Bro fooling around with your best friend_ and at the same time you can’t help but wonder why

you aren’t

good enough

for Bro to spend any time with. 

You realize that there’s come all over your hands and you quickly turn and step towards the sink on jelly legs to rinse it off. While you frantically rub your hands beneath the faucet, you hear Bro’s door open down the hall.

“Oh hey!”

You turn around, and John is there, standing in the kitchen with the dumbest look on his face, blushing for all the world like a fucking ripe-ass tomato plucked forth from a vine of shame. You notice that his pajama pants are inside out and his hair is sex-messy and he’s got a red mark on his neck where—

 _fuck_ , you think, _FUCK_ , and you turn around and focus harder on the sink and even pick up a fucking dish to wash, because you can’t stop thinking about that spot of red on John’s neck and how your Bro must have sucked and tasted it and how you’ve no idea what John tastes like, only that he smells like some cheap ass corny cologne from CVS which probably comes in a spray bottle shaped like some dude’s mutant fiftypack abs.

“Sup,” you say, trying so hard to keep your cool. John fumbles awkwardly in the cupboard for a glass and his face is _way redder than it should be_ , but neither of you acknowledge what just happened. At all.

“Just uh, waiting for you to get back,” John mutters, filling the glass with water from the tap and taking a sip. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, but after a few seconds he glances at you. “Sorry there’s no snacks! I uh… well I guess I couldn’t, uh…”

He looks panicked, and you want to call his ass out but he’s your best friend and so you play along, because you don’t want to hurt him and you also kinda need him, so you motion towards the neglected can of high-blood-pressure-induction.

“We can share this Chef Boyardee,” you say. “The beefiest of the ronis.”

John laughs, but it sounds a bit nervous, and his words come out a bit rushed. “Totally,” he says. “Or should I say-- _brotally_.”

The pun hangs in the air for the most millisecondest of milliseconds before John apparently realizes how fucking awful and awkward it is and absconds. He looks humiliated; really he does, with the way his whole face is red as fuckin Hector Boyardee’s secret sauce and how he fidgets and stutters over his words until you put your hand on his shoulder and tell him to _shut the fuck up cause we got a movie to watch._

An hour later John is asleep, his head on your shoulder and drool dripping down your sleeve. It’s to be expected, really, because it’s John. In the other room your Bro is sleeping. He hasn’t even said _hello_ , hasn’t even ever told you what’s going on with John, and you begin to wonder if this is a thing that’s been going on since way before tonight. 

Tonight your life sucks. Maybe. Just a little. You put your arm around John and he hiccups in his sleep, nestles closer against you as corny actor dudes ramble some shit on the screen. You almost wish he were awake to ramble along with the dialog. You almost wish Bro were awake and hanging out, too. You wish. Almost.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find more of me at my main psued, [deadcellredux](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux), or at [listentoyoubleed.tumblr.com](http://listentoyoubleed.tumblr.com).


End file.
